


lost in the garden of my mind

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, M/M, Magical Realism, flower magic!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 17:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18103406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: “You’re not freaking out, right?”Brett looks at his newly revived plants and watches one of them wave at him. It’s a little bit like the tree he has out front, but there’s no wind in his room.“I’ve never been more calm in my life.”





	lost in the garden of my mind

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh tampa bay lets get that bread! 
> 
> i recently found out howdys frm oakbank, mb! so, like a reasonable person, i went: wow let me just write a small town fic abt these people i barely Know but suddenly love! heres the finished product :-)
> 
> title frm fantasy by alina baraz

It’s raining. Something like a light shower, with how his entire town is given soft little kisses from the droplets of rain spilling over the streets and the fields. Although there are clouds looming up above, dark and ominous.

Brett is far from where he should be. His mother had always told him never to venture far during a storm, to keep away from electricity and stay low, instead of heading out onto the streets just to breathe it in. To soak in the gifts they’re given after a week made up purely of humid weather and yellowing plants. To give up the sun for a moment of ease. 

He’s alone, he thinks, sitting beneath a maple tree at the park just near his house. It’s his favourite place to be. The branches are very bare, considering they’ve just barely sank into October. Then again, September isn’t a month known for greenery and flowers, not in Oakbank.

His ears are filled with the sounds of water pattering against the ground, the occasional car that drives by off to the distance, and—

“Oh,” someone says. It comes out unsteady, wavering dangerously, and Brett throws his gaze around before catching sight of the boy looking right back at him. His hair is wet, bangs stuck to his forehead until he pushes them back. Brett doesn’t recognize him, which is new. The community isn’t big enough for there to be too many people around that Brett doesn’t immediately know. 

Brett says, “hey,” to the boy, who’s staring intently up at the tree. “Looking for something?” 

“Um.” He sounds like it doesn’t sit well with him, the rain, or the tree, or whatever it is that’s bugging him. “No, it’s nothing. Sorry. I’m Brayden,” he offers, almost like he’s being forced. It sounds polite in some condescending way. 

Thunder crackles overhead. A strand of Brayden’s hair falls over his forehead as he glances up again.

Brett almost forgets to say anything, but he wasn’t raised to leave people hanging. Even if the people are somber eyed strangers. Well, his eyes _are_ very pretty, despite the nearly panicked look bouncing on and off his face. 

“Cool, I’m Brett,” he says slowly. 

“That’s really great,” Brayden says, clearly distracted by the bare branches of the tree. Or maybe it’s the clouds, the rain. “Actually, I’ll see you around. I’m gonna—I gotta go.” 

Brett shrugs. It’s not like he was hoping for actually seeing him again, he isn’t sure who this kid thinks he is. This isn’t exactly the first meeting people dream of. “Uh, yeah, dude.” 

He can’t even get in a smile before Brayden is rushing off, pulling his hood over his head. Brett thinks he sees something in his hand, something papery and tinted yellow, but his head could be playing tricks on him. It’s what makes the most sense at least. 

This all strikes him as a possible consequence of staying out in the rain for too long, maybe. 

 

 

At first, Brett is pretty much unaffected by what happened in the park. He lives his life, staring up at the clouds with quiet eyes full of sorrow, hoping for at least a light smattering of water. But there’s nothing. Ever. 

The weather gets colder. There’s sleet. Snow falls. Then it melts, and it’s still barely October. 

Brett grew up living in Oakbank, he knows how this goes. How undependable the weather is, with how it has already stripped the trees of their leaves but refused to lay down the snow to cover them up. How the grass is yellow and bland, with no sheet of white to hide it away. It’s an ugly sight, the town before winter sweeps it away. Brett catches himself feeling pitiful more often than not.

So maybe it makes sense that when Brett walks through the park and sees his maple tree teeming with yellow leaves, he feels the ground spin underneath him just a little. 

They’re real, he gets that much when the stands underneath it, watching the leaves dancing in the light breeze. They’re plastered against the bright blue sky and Brett feels like it’s August again. Like he isn’t waiting for the winter to take his town apart, like he can’t feel the cold inching up his back.

The grass beneath the tree is a brighter green, too, and Brett has no way of justifying it. No way to make sense of any of this, but he decides to put it to rest. It’s easier to enjoy this, rather than to examine it piece by piece, this miracle that’s come from what feels like nothing. 

When he sits at the base of the tree, pressing his back to the bark, he can pretend it’s summer again. His fingers are tangled up in long green grass, and the whistle of the breeze rustling the leaves is a sound he’s grown unfamiliar to in the weeks passing. But he hasn’t forgotten how to sink into it. 

It’s just hard to shake the thoughts of rain and the bare swaying branches, and Brayden with that frantic look on his face. Brayden who he doesn’t even _know_ , but who had made an unmistakable imprint on him. Brett, if he tried really hard, thinks he could forget Brayden. He’s got friends that look a little like him, and in Manitoba, Brayden is barely distinguishable among a crowd, but. But he can’t do it. 

When he shuts his eyes, he thinks about the pouring rain, the dark clouds, and Brayden.

 

 

As Brett gets home, he’s greeted by the bare tree with skeletal branches in his front yard, and in the breeze it almost looks like it could be waving at him. Brett grins. He doesn’t wave back, but he thinks about it. 

Everything else is still the same. Fields are covered in dirty patches of drying grass, the flowers are wilting, and the state of his garden deteriorates day by day by day. Brett knows he can’t do anything about it other than stare out his window and hope for the best, crossing his fingers for an early snowfall or some kind of—miracle. It has happened once before, with the leaves of the maple tree. 

He smiles a little sadly and tells his plants to perk up when he waters them.

 

 

The leaves on the old maple don’t last long, Brett notices. He sees it a day later from further down the park, where there is still a path, and moves off of it just to get closer to his tree. He almost doesn’t recognize it, but it has all the same knots in the bark, including the one shaped like an apple smack dab in the center of it. 

He brushes his fingers overtop of it, just to commit the shape to memory. 

When he circles around to the other side, he has to stop dead in his tracks just to avoid falling over.

It’s Brayden again, sitting in the grass with a yellow leaf between his fingers. It’s crinkling underneath his grip. Brett wonders if he’s imagining the worn expression on his face. It doesn’t suit him. Brett still hasn’t seen him smile, so he doesn’t know what _would_ suit him, but this isn’t it. 

There’s a long list of things he could do here, but the, “oh, hi again,” that slips from his lips is the last thing he wants to say. It’s too quick to do stomp away, but part of him wishes his nerves drew in on him before he’d gotten a chance to say it.

Brayden’s eyes flit up and land right on him, his hand with the leaf dropping to his jacket pocket. There’s too much on his face to dissect it, mixed emotions splattered like paint on a canvas, but there’s a small quirk of his lips somewhere underneath all of that. 

“Hey,” he says. “Brett, right? From—“ 

“The rain, yeah,” Brett fills in helpfully, nodding. It’s the first time he’s brought it up to anyone since it happened. 

Brayden says, “Do you wanna sit? I can go, it’s totally fine.” It’s all in a rush of words that clunk together, all too anxious and panicky. 

Brett thinks he needs to calm the fuck down. “Nah, it’s fine, you can stay,” he says. “This tree isn’t actually my property or anything. Free rights, do what you want.”

Brayden does give him a small smile when Brett sits down next to him, curling a leg up closer to his chest. Brett wonders if it’s saying something about him that the first thing his eyes go to are Brayden’s fingers toying with a blade of grass. It’s still a bright green. 

Further down the park, someone’s flying a kite. Brett decides to watch that instead, because it’s a lot easier to focus on the lingering moments of autumn before they’re faced with another snowfall.

“It’s a nice tree,” Brayden says, leaning back against it. He looks peaceful. “There aren’t many like it where I’m from. Or at least, not a lot within walking distance of my house.” 

Brett raises his eyebrows at him, curious. “Where are you _from_? Siberia?” 

“Calgary. Moved here this summer.” Brayden rolls his eyes. “You—you didn’t actually think I was from Siberia, right?” 

“Probably.” Brett shrugs, feeling a little flicker of warmth in his chest when Brayden looks at him skeptically. It’s all his attention at once, and it feels strange, odd, all out of place, but he likes it. “Buddy, when you’re born and raised in the slums of Manitoba you don’t know shit about the other parts of Canada, trust me.” 

Brayden’s laugh is bright and Brett can hear it fall from his mouth, but it’s all in his eyes instead. “Guess I can’t blame you, I didn’t even know Manitoba was a real province ‘til I moved out here.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” 

“No joke, thought it was all folklore,” Brayden says, and he’s finally relaxing a little. Brett sees his shoulders fall, like the tension’s being ripped straight from his hands. 

The kite crashes into the ground. It helps Brett look away from him, at least. 

“I know it’s a weird little town, but Oakbank grows on you,” Brett says. “Just might take some time to get used to the wheat fields and cows and shit.” 

Brayden looks disbelieving.

“No, seriously. In the summer, it’s pretty.” 

Brayden inserts, “except for the cows, yeah?” 

“Gotta learn to love the cows.” 

Brayden’s hands are still in the grass and he hasn’t plucked a single blade of it. Brett isn’t gonna lie, that takes a lot of willpower. 

“And apparently we have magic trees, had no idea,” Brett says, just to see Brayden’s reaction, which is more the stiffening of his expression rather than the stupid laugh he was expecting. 

“Bet you do,” is all that comes out, but it’s lacking the lilt of warmth he had in his voice earlier. “I mean, I’ve never seen this many maple trees in my _life_ , so maybe it’s true,” he says, and all the personality is back. 

Brett takes a new interest in the clouds. He starts watching those, because occupying his line of sight with anything else seems like an awful idea. 

They talk for what feels like twenty minutes, but might just be an hour, because the horizon is soaked in dipping purples and the setting sun throws little rays of sunlight overtop the grassy plains and bumps of hills. 

It gets to Brayden, too, the glow of pink, and Brett tries not to look at the way his face catches the pale light of the sun perfectly. Like he was positioned specifically for the way gold shimmers in his eyes, or how everything softens up the curl of his lips just like that. 

Brett says, “shit, it’s getting late,” and hopes it’s enough of an excuse to leave.

 

 

Everything about Brayden seems mysterious. How little he talks about his family, settling instead to converse about hockey, or how he’s so careful around plants, or the way he keeps a maple leaf in his pocket at all times. 

It’s all of that, plus the way leaves keep springing up on the bare branches of his maple tree. Or—Brett doesn’t even know, _their_ maple tree, he guesses. Seeing how it’s where he meets Brayden every time. 

The leaves come in clusters. They‘re yellow every time, and Brett doesn’t think he’s imagining the way each time they lessen, but they’re _there_. 

And when every other tree in the park is barren and empty, Brett and Brayden get to laugh and joke around under the partial shade of _their_ maple tree, and it all feels so, so different. 

His calendar tells him it’s the end of October with big looping letters that read _November_ and Brett realizes that the picture for this month is bare trees with leaves of all colours piled up around their bases. 

He goes to the park and sees a maple tree full of golden leaves and thinks—maybe miracles are possible.

 

 

His plants die. 

The sun comes out once over the course of the first week November gives him and his plants shrivel into stems with dull tinted colours. Brett has to watch it happen, and really, this was the thing that pushed them off the edge. It happens every winter. Every year.

“My plants are cursed,” he says conversationally, and Brayden immediately sets down the book in his lap to look up. 

“Your what?” 

Brett sits down and it’s the same as always. The grass is rough underneath him, the leaves when he glances up are sparse and golden and the prettiest he has ever seen them in November. “My _plants_ ,” he repeats, taking in the flash of whatever expression it is across Brayden’s face. 

It softens. There’s a distinct ache in his chest at that. Brett thinks he must miss his plants a lot to feel it in the beat of his heart, which is not very convincing, but he tries.

“Oh, my god, you have plants,” Brayden says, almost accusatory, and he’s pretty sure they’re way past that at this point, but Brett’s going to at least try to scrape up those last little bits of his dignity anyways.

“Uh, yeah, and you read?” Brett waves at the book on his lap, and he’s only just realizing the flowers printed across the hard cover. It’s packed with roses, lavenders, pansies, and everything in between, all behind the little box of text that reads _Flowerpaedia_. 

“No, not that.” There’s pink high on Brayden’s cheeks, blooming beautifully, and Brett is half in awe of just how pretty he looks and half taken aback by, “I garden, too.” 

Brett blinks. He almost says something stupid about being destined to meet, but instead pulls away from that to say, “I could definitely tell.” 

“I like knowing my shit,” Brayden says defensively, waving the book around. “Did you know daisies symbolize, uh,” he cracks the book open to the page he was at, hastily looking up to Brett with closed off features. “Innocence and purity.” 

Brett stays quiet for a minute, letting the gears in his head turn and turn and _god_ , Brayden is so lucky every single look he gives Brett makes his stomach flip. “My plants are dead,” he deadpans. “Not innocent or pure.”

Brayden glances between his book and Brett’s face, something quiet stirring underneath. He’s silent long enough that Brett recognizes he’s thinking hard about something. It’s just how he is, the worst at thinking out loud. 

And then, “you—you want me to fix that?” 

Brett blinks. “You gonna use magic fertilizer or something? I’m telling you they’re dead.”

Brayden clearly ignores him and everything he says, except, “yeah,” he returns. “Magic fertilizer. Old family recipe.” 

And Brett wants to ask if he’s joking, because it really isn’t funny, but Brayden lets it out seriously enough that he doesn’t seem to find it funny either. 

Brett considers him for a minute. There isn’t much he can do for his plants at this point anyways, so fuck it. 

“Okay,” he says, shifting to take the book out of Brayden’s lap. “Later, you can tell me all about it.” 

 

 

Brayden says, “don’t freak out,” and Brett’s initial reaction is to immediately freak out. 

He doesn’t, though. Because he’s a sensible young man and doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be freaking out about, except for the part where Brayden, in all his glory, is in Brett’s bedroom. With his hair, and his hands, and his smile. It is a very nice smile, the warmth there like it’s always been. 

“Are you about to rob me?” Brett asks, watching from next to him, where they’re standing by Brett’s collection of potted plants. 

One of the plants, some thyme, is his only thing that’s even remotely intact. But it’s only because you can’t fuck up caring for thyme.

Brayden reaches for the windowsill, where the pot of it is sitting next to a couple others. The thyme is vivid and green, growing happily despite its fallen companions. Brett wishes it the best.

“That makes no sense,” Brayden tells him, the small pot cradled in his hands. “Close your eyes, okay? Just ten seconds.” 

“Oh yeah, _Close your eyes but I won’t rob you, Brett_. You’re not making a very good case for yourself,” Brett says, but he lets his eyes slip shut anyways. He hears no doors shutting, or footsteps walking away from him, and he has no idea why he lets himself trust Brayden as much as he does, but he thought he’d be able to get over it at this point. 

“Seriously, not allowed to be weird about this,” Brayden finally adds, before falling silent.

Brett counts to ten. Well, he actually counts to eight because he’s never been the most patient guy he knows. But the point is, when he opens his eyes he’s expecting to see the same old plants. The ones with the drooping stems and wilting leaves and flowers that refuse to keep their heads up. 

But. 

“Ta-da.” Brayden’s voice is gentle and his smile is sheepish. The potted thyme, in its own happy little world, is still in his hands. 

The rest of the plants, they haven’t been touched. Not once. But they look like new blooms. Like Brayden breathed the life back into them, or plucked the dull stems off and replaced them with colourful new ones. It’s the brightest his room’s been since the beginnings of summer, when the sun would leak through his windows and drench his plants in golden rays. 

But this—this was without all of that. This was Brayden, Brayden with his little smile and the eyes that cross over the flowers with a tiny inkling of pride tucked into the corners. 

“How did you,” Brett tries his hardest to turn that into a question, trying to figure out which words he’s supposed to use to make it something that makes sense.

Brayden seems to understand anyways. “Family secret, like I told you,” he says, which isn’t helpful. “You’re not freaking out, right?”

Brett looks at his newly revived plants and watches one of them wave at him. It’s a little bit like the tree he has out front, but there’s no wind in his room.

“I’ve never been more calm in my life,” he manages, kind of believing himself, except for the part where his brain keeps going offline. 

“Brett,” Brayden says, _actually_ calm. He sets the thyme back down on the windowsill, next to the peace lily that he thought was dead. Apparently not. Apparently it is thriving. 

Brett watches him, watches the way he approaches Brett with all the caution in the world. “You’re magic?” 

“Not magic,” Brayden tries, and then gives him two thumbs up. “I just have really green thumbs.” 

Brett’s at a loss for words, and maybe it’s because he falls silent that Brayden moves closer, showing Brett a closed fist. He says, “look, see,” uncurls the fingers, and there’s a sprig of thyme sitting on his palm. One that definitely wasn’t there before. “Green thumbs.” 

“Fuck, holy shit,” Brett blurts. “Brayden, you’re—you grow plants out of thin fucking air.”

Brayden shakes his head, it’s all solemn, and he’s trying very hard to stay calm. It’s clear in the grin that taps at the corners of his lips, something small from something big. “Not thin air, I’m not actually, like, good enough to do that yet.” 

“Yet,” Brett repeats, still trying to get over the waves of amazement. 

“I need—I need a reference. I don’t know how to explain it. I can’t grow things without having a sample of what I’m trying to grow.” Brayden hands him the tiny sprig of thyme, and Brett takes it without a word. He’s still trying to process it. Brayden closes Brett’s hand with his own two. “I couldn’t fix your plants without a healthy one.” 

Brett nods his head slowly. The thyme is small and delicate in his fingers. “Wait, so the tree. That was you?” 

Brayden sticks his hands in his pockets and pulls out the small maple leaf he keeps with him. It’s crumpled and crooked. Brett has no idea how old it is. 

“Pretty impressive, huh?” He twirls the leaf between his fingers and Brett watches with rapt attention. He lets himself have it that one time, lets himself breathe in Brayden and everything about him.

“Yeah, man, it’s—shit. It’s crazy.” 

“Still calm about this?” 

Brett doesn’t think twice about saying, “always,” and he doesn’t regret it for a second. Not if it gets a smile like that out of Brayden. 

 

 

After Brayden leaves, Brett stares long and hard at his plants. 

He swears the little aloe vera plant he’s got sitting on his drawer has waved at him twice now and both times Brett’s felt a twist of something painful deep in his gut. Like maybe he’s sinking, all while coming up for air at the same time, and it’s really difficult to classify whatever that means.

He can hear his pulse in his ears going, going, going, and falls back against his bed with one very conclusive thought.

He’s falling in love with his plants. There’s no other explanation. 

 

 

It rains, the night before it’s projected to snow. It rains for hours and hours and Brett is safely tucked away in his house, underneath blankets and occupied watching reruns of old childhood shows. 

There are three raps against his front door that Brett thinks he could mistake for thunder, if it wasn’t for the, “Brett!” that follows right after. Because he’s pretty confident the clouds wouldn’t say his name. 

Brayden looks just as he did the night they first met. He’s drenched in rainwater and his hair is stuck to his forehead, and—there’s a lavender rose tucked behind his ear. 

Brett feels his mouth go dry. Brayden’s grin is wide and there’s nothing but joy around his eyes, where they look ecstatic and so full of fondness that Brett can feel the butterflies in his stomach. At all of this. 

He lets Brayden in and says, “you have a little rose there,” and goes to pluck it off, but his wrist is caught in something. Something, as in Brayden’s fingers, and Brett has no idea what to do here. 

His hand is close enough that he lets it brush Brayden’s jaw. He tilts it up, looks right into his eyes. Brayden’s skin is damp and soft against his fingers. It’s not what he would usually do, but it’s what he’s doing. 

Brett thinks about kissing him. He thinks about it a lot actually.

“I know,” Brayden says, bubbling with enough excitement that Brett swears he can hear it in his voice. “Listen, I was—I was at home and I was thinking about coming over. Or calling you, or whatever, right? And I don’t even _own_ a rose, but it. Just appeared.” 

“Wait, you mean,” Brett laughs, because he doesn’t know what else to say. How to put this into words. “The thing—flowers out of thin air, you did that.” 

Brayden laughs too, and it’s spelled all across his face, in the crinkle of his eyes and the lift of his lips. 

Brett isn’t expecting it when Brayden pulls him into a hug. It’s quick and he wasn’t sure it would even be coming, but then he’s being collected into Brayden’s arms and he lets himself sink a little further into his grip. Because it’s easy, and good, and Brayden smells just like the rain. 

“Why a rose?” He asks after a moment, when Brayden pulls back. 

“No idea,” Brayden says. “And it’s _purple_.” 

“You’re freaking out,” Brett tells him gently. 

Brayden touches a hand to the petals, it’s barely a brush of his fingers. “Honestly, I think I am.

 

 

When it snows, Brett’s room is full of soft purples and greens rather than the light of snow through the window. When everything should be painted in pale greys, his room says Brayden all over it, and Brett knows what it means to want that. He’s just never really thought about it before. 

Brayden turns lavender roses into a habit before he moves onto anything else, meaning he gives a huge percent of them to Brett. He’ll let buds of them grow from an empty pot in Brett’s room, or he’ll weave them into wreaths for Christmas, or he’ll set them in the most random places and Brett still remembers shaking one out of his winter boot one morning. 

“I have no idea how it got there,” Brayden had said, looking embarrassed. “I’m still getting used to this, y’know.” 

The roses are knitted into every aspect of his life, so much that Brett’s left the house more than once without the knowledge of the crown of them on his head, and only took it off when someone pointed it out. 

Sometimes his fingers catch on purple petals hidden underneath his pillowcase. Or even the sharp, sweet scent of them, it follows him everywhere. 

And each time, Brett’s feelings goes right back to Brayden. He suddenly won’t know how to breathe or feel, what to do about the thoughts circling around his head or that persistent ache in his chest and—and it happens. It just happens. It keeps happening.

 

 

In late December, Brett goes over to Brayden’s place and there’s a wreath hooked onto his front door. It’s one with little sprays of holly all tied together by twigs and leaves. The red bow slapped on top of it all is only a little crooked. 

“Did you make that?” Brett asks slowly, once Brayden opens the door. 

He looks overjoyed that Brett even pointed it out and nods his head with a tiny up and down. “Surprise, I made leaves and sticks.” He waves his hand at it, gesturing at the whole thing pretty much, and Brett’s honestly impressed.

“Damn, thought you’d be stuck making roses your entire life.” He doesn’t mention the roses scattered in obscure places around his house. He doesn’t think Brayden knows about them. “It’s pretty.” 

Brayden looks happy about that. He lingers for a minute, like he’s going to say something else, and Brett's freezing his ass off out on the porch but he can wait. 

Nothing comes out and Brayden opens the door a little wider. 

 

 

“Are you gonna make your own tree?” Brett asks, because it’s way too late into December for Brayden’s living room to be as empty as it is. Empty, aside from the climbing plants stuck to his walls. Come to think of it, his place is a fucking jungle. 

He looks at the void spot in the room, like he knows it’s exactly where Brett was picturing a tree and laughs. “I really don’t think I could manage creating a whole tree.” 

“With a sample, though. Right? I could get you a pine needle.” 

Brayden exaggeratedly hums something, like he’s thinking about it but he already knows the answer. Brett’s perfectly willing to wait.

“It’d have to be real,” he says, giving in, and Brett has to stomp down the urge to fist pump the air. 

It’s fair, he convinces himself, because Brayden doesn’t know this but Brett’s pretty sure he has no idea how to deny him of anything. It’s funny, that it goes both ways.

“Done,” he insists.

 

 

“Hey, Brett?” 

Brett looks up from patting down their snowman. It’s not really theirs, actually, Brett did most of the work. Brayden kind of just whined about the snow refusing to stick. 

“Yeah?” 

Brayden says, with a grin, “nothing.” And Brett is almost immediately convinced that there’s no way it’s actually _nothing_.

There’s a little flower tucked into his glove when he looks down, and he immediately recognizes the purple petals. 

“You’re so lucky these are pretty,” Brett says, shaking it off the glove. “So lucky.”

“Yeah, but you love it.”

Brett rolls his eyes.

They end up decorating the snowman— _their_ snowman—with little lavender roses, and Brett thinks every time their hands brush, his heart jumps just a little. It’s barely noticeable, he thinks. But he knows it. 

And it’s not something he’s expecting, not something he could see coming from miles away, but yeah, he does love it.

 

 

There are no flowers in the winter. The trees are bare and the town is sheathed in white. In winter, everything disappears. 

But Brett still gets a little taste of the sunshine every time he’s around Brayden. There is something about him that makes Brett’s heart flutter with affection. Something bright and glowing underneath, something that Brayden carries everywhere he goes. 

Brett sees it all the time, but it takes him a while to figure it out. To realize that Brayden shines like the sun and smiles at Brett like he smiles at the flowers and the trees. He carries his heart on his sleeve and Brett’s seen it hundreds of times. There isn’t much to miss. 

But it hits him like a truck when the puzzle pieces fit so perfectly.

 

 

Apparently, Brayden takes his _Flowerpaedia_ everywhere he goes. Most of the time, Brayden is where Brett is. 

Like right now, when they’re both curled up on the couch underneath a blanket with the book opened up in front of them. Brett isn’t there for every single time Brayden flips through the pages of his little flower dictionary, but he’s been somewhere in the high 600’s of the flowers, and Brett’s there when he flips the page to the 700th one.

The two pages are sectioned off multiple times to accommodate for the roses in all different shades scattered overtop the pages. There are black ones, red ones, white ones, and Brett lights up when he sees a flash of purple.

He says, “hey, there’s—“ 

“Oh, my god,” Brayden blurts, and snaps the book shut right at the page they were at, not looking the slightest bit remorseful. “Yeah, we can’t—we’re not looking at that.”

Brett frowns at him, staring down at the book like he could somehow get it to open up with his mind. Then again, that would be a pretty lame superpower. “What happened to knowing your shit?” 

“Roses are boring,” Brayden says defensively. 

“What, so you give them to me because I’m boring? I’m hurt.” Brett draws a crack with his fingertip right overtop his heart. Brayden offers up a weak little laugh, but Brett’s still pretty hellbent on seeing that page because this is their _thing_. 

“It’s just. It’s stupid,” Brayden tells him.

“That isn’t an explanation, because I sure as hell know your purple roses didn’t mean stupidity. Who would even come up with that?” 

“Me.” Brayden keeps his hands on the book, looking as though they’re wrapped tight enough that Brett would probably have to put up a struggle to grab it away. “Because I’m stupid.” 

“That’s so not fair, you’re the least stupid person I know,” Brett says, silently questioning his own sincerity in that. “But if you don’t give me that book, totally different story.” 

“ _Brett_ ,” Brayden says slowly, like he’s trying to calm him down. He brings the book to his chest. 

Brett’s got a few inches and maybe thirty pounds on him. He’s not gonna, like, jump him, but he’s gonna go for the book if he has to.

“You know, I’m giving you a chance to hand it over.” He’s a nice guy, so he offers Brayden that much. 

He’s all pink in the face and Brett thinks way too many thoughts he definitely shouldn’t be thinking before more or less wrestling him to the floor.

Even if, “real tough guy, huh?” Brayden goads, breaking out into a big grin, and he’s still pink, but holding the book even further out of reach this time. 

Brett’s getting that thing back if he breaks a bone doing it.

 

 

They forget about the book after struggling for what is definitely a little more than ten minutes because Brayden’s doorbell goes off and they ordered some pizza, which is always first priority. But it lingers somewhere in the back of his mind, that and the way Brayden had to straighten out the collar of his sweater after Brett practically tackled him, looking at him with pleading eyes and hair sticking up just about everywhere.

His head is _not_ where that image belongs. 

“I like the roses,” Brett tells him, when they settle down to eat. 

Brayden’s toes are tucked underneath Brett’s thigh, and it all feels weirdly pleasant. Getting to be this close to Brayden while getting little smiles and laughs out of him all at once. 

Brayden’s quiet for a beat, his eyes downcast. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Brett tries to find the words to add onto that, but he keeps jumping between the options in his head, unsure of what sounds the least dorky. He settles for, “I think it’s because you’re the one giving them to me,” as quietly as he can, like you’d only pick it up if you were really listening for it.

Brayden looks at him. He was listening for it, Brett thinks, because he cuts a sharp breath. It’s shaky. In. Out. “They mean—they mean I think I’m falling for you,” Brayden says, his voice nervous and wavering. 

He sounds exactly how Brett feels. “Oh,” he says, and that’s supposed to turn into something but it all gets lost in the incoherent mess of thoughts spiralling in his head. 

“It’s not. It doesn’t have to be a thing,” Brayden assures him quickly. “Like, god, I know this came out of nowhere and I’m being weird about it, but I’ll stop. I swear I’ll—“

“Bray, oh, my god,” he says, and he thinks he might be laughing. His emotions are in too much havoc for him to know for sure. 

Brayden says, “yeah?” 

“Shut up,” Brett supplies helpfully.

Brayden still opens his mouth to say something, but all Brayden really hears is the gaspy breath he takes before Brett leans in to kiss him. It’s short and sweet and Brayden’s eyes are still squeezed shut when Brett pulls away, which makes it extremely hard to gauge his reaction. 

It’s that and then Brayden lets out this little huff, his gaze tracking right back up to Brett’s face. He looks like he’s going to say some heavy sentimental shit, but then he’s smiling. Smiling like Brett complimented his flowers and dips back into his space just to kiss him again. 

And it’s a while this time, of going in for another and another, keeping his hands on Brayden and holding him in close. Because he gets to do that now, while he’s kissing him. He’s allowed to have this.

“I think,” Brayden says, and stumbles over that, replacing it with, “no, I _know_ I liked that. I really fucking liked it.” 

Brett smiles. “Good, because I like you,” he tells him, which isn’t the smoothest thing he’s ever said but he’s pretty sure he gets points for the way it gets Brayden flushed. 

“And you’re not even a bad kisser,” Brayden says. 

Brett makes an affronted noise. “What the hell, I’m a stud.” 

“You can’t give yourself that much credit, you know.” Brayden shakes his head. “It’s really cocky.” 

“You’re the worst.” 

Brayden grins.

Brett’s not really thinking about Brayden being the worst when he’s kissing him again, but he hopes he got the point across.

 

 

BH  
♡  
BP

Brett traces the carving in the tree with his fingers, letting it guide his fingertips over the bumps and ridges

Brayden watches him, quiet, and he doesn’t say a word about the green leaves above them until Brett hears rustling, tipping his chin up just to catch sight of the flash of colour. 

It’s spring. Too early into it for the leaves to be just as green as they are, but Brett’s happy and he’s going to let himself have that. 

And, “surprise,” Brayden says, a smile tugging up the corners of his lips. “Pretty enough?”

“Oh yeah,” Brett says, pulling him in by the waist.

The flowers that spring up beneath them brush his ankles, and Brett finds it all the more reason to kiss him.


End file.
